Perfection Addict
by hell-whim
Summary: Lights flash on the pavement. And for a moment, he glows. Post Damage Rated for language, sex, and drug use.


**Title:** Perfection Addict  
**Author:** freak-pudding  
**Disclaimer:** _Buffy: The Vampire Slayer_ and all associated articles are the sole property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. No copyright infringement intended.  
**Summary:** Lights flash on the pavement. And for a moment, he glows. Post- _Damage  
_**Author's Note:** Spike the Soulful Avenger. (snicker) Dark places in Puddin's mind are very, very scary. Rated for language, sex, drug use, and mentions of prostitution. Teehee, I love bein' dirty. Definitely S/B, and implied S/Faith, S/Harmony, S/Dru, & S/Anya

A smile, the whisper of silver in the dead of another cold night. She's leaning casually against the barrier between here and elsewhere, and he regards her with only half a glance. Not really worth the fight.

A phone booth. Of course it's a fucking phone booth. He sighs, running a hand through his ever-unruly hair and contemplates the next step. Forever ended an hour ago with a round of vodka and the feel of a dyed blonde against his thigh. Yeah, sometimes LA was alright.

There's a cold six-pack under his arm, and a thousand reasons why he should just turn around and let it all go. A stolen Viper is sitting outside his stairwell, engine still warm from the flight. Stupid fucking adrenaline.

Shouldn't there be a law against this or something? He shifts the beer to the other hand, eyeing the object of his vexation with mildly detached interest.

"Somethin' I can help you with, pet?"

She sighs, running a glove-clad hand up along her body, tracing the swell of one lovely breast before answering.

"Wouldn't _you_ like to know?"

He frowns, eyes darting towards the shadows of his new basement, wishing she'd melt into the air. Body cast in shadow, he gets only slivers of features; a leather-clad leg stretches out before her, toe pointed to the ground. She's leaning against the wall like she's been there forever. For all he knows, she might have been.

He cocks his head to the side, knowing it won't be worth it.

"Not that I don't relish the cryptic, pet, but I've got better things to do."

"And here I was just thinkin' _I_ could be one of those…"

Her lips curl up, dark lipstick curtain pulling back on the white gleam of her teeth, and now he _knows_ this isn't real.

"_Better_ things."

The voice is sultry and dark, luring him in with the promise of bourbon and candy. The gloves that were never really there are gone suddenly, and he's left staring at her bare fingers. Red talons pressed against that fake pleather shit _she_'d never wear.

"California harlot's a good look on you, pet."

She smirks, tongue running over those too-perfect teeth.

"You think so?" she purrs seductively. Her eyes glow golden for a moment, but he blinks, and they're brown again. She moves from the shadow, throwing her features into sharp view.

He almost sighs in relief when he sees the scar across her cheek. A small nose, tip slightly upturned, eyes that are a little too sunken to be perfectly healthy, lips that are just dark enough for her sallow skin, and brows tweezed perfectly thin. The hair falling across her shoulders is a curly black, all midnight raven and Spike thinks of another black-haired girl. Like a plum; a ripe, wicked plum, and Spike grins.

"Yeah, works real well with those shoes," he says, gesturing to the six-inch twigs attached to her heels. She grins back, all smoky eyes and cat-like grace that screams of intimate wrongness. A thousand red flags fly in his mind, and Spike shoots them all. Sod the fucking phone booth.

"You like?" she replies, finally within groping distance. She's all hips, seeming to be pulled by some huge sexual magnet. Flash of brown hair on a silk pillow, dark lips parted in ecstasy and darkness a thousand miles away.

"Always."

Granted, Buffy was his one-and-only, but a man's allowed to have a few fantasies, right?

"Nice to know some things don't change."

Beautiful sins poured from her mouth on clouds of that pearly-gray smoke. Past red lips, swollen from nothing and just too moist to be legal. Eyes that matched his, just like everything else about them. So perfect, so alike, and Spike wonders if she's happy in Cleveland with the principal. All's well that ends well, he supposes.

"Nice to know some things _do_, though."

"Oh, I'll always change for you, baby."

Smirks. She'd never call him that. Too adorable for her tastes. No, his Slayer liked it hard and fast. Wild and dirty, whispering those gritty words in the throes of excruciating passion; fingers tracing the indents of metal cuffs that stayed on his wrists for days after.

"Sweet of you, really, but I've seen better."

Yeah, he may have a soul, but he wasn't a bleedin' ponce.

"You sure 'bout that?" she asks seductively, pressing her body against his. He cuts his eyes at her, smirking at the way her hands glide up his thigh. "You haven't seen what I can do."

Seven nights of silence, and he's beginning to wonder at the feel of her. Chuckles because he knows exactly what she is now. Amber flashing on black, and all he sees is the red of her nails.

"Don't think I care to, pet."__

One luscious lip juts out, and he groans at the sexual beauty of it all. Her hands touch his body with urgency, roaming up and across the hard planes of his muscles. One hand travels lower, pulling his shirt from the hem of his pants.

He looks down on her, watching as she tilts her head up. Lips brush enticingly close together, and her little pink tongue darts out to lick his mouth. The other arm snakes beneath his duster, wrapping around the rigidness that is his back. A upright proposition.

Yeah, it might be worth tonight.

"Oh, c'mon," she purrs. "It'll only hurt for a moment."

Spike grins, feeling her hand slide under his shirt, petting the hard muscles beneath silky white flesh.

"Speakin' my language now, pet," he says huskily, gesturing towards the stairs. She glances back, eyes flashing blue-green and a wonderful violet. Light from the cinema across the way splashes over the pavement, and for a moment, she's nothing but glow.

He cocks his head to the side, moving forward and indicating her invitation to follow. She trots down the stairs behind him faithfully, like the dog she is. Spike kicks open the door, locks be damned. He didn't have anything worth stealing anyway.

"'S not much, an' it's not home, but it serves."

A musty couch against one wall sits beside a worn-down end table covered in stains. Threadbare carpet and cracked tile, with a frig that buzzes all night and a sink that will never run warm. Shower that's always scalding and a broken mirror over a cracked porcelain counter. Bed that's way too small with a lamp that fades in and out; a thousand ways that he could change it all but doesn't really care to.

"Seems you're not out to impress."

She's leaning against the doorframe, and he opens the frig.

"Come into the cold, lamb."

Shoves aside day-old Chinese takeout that'll never quite taste the same again, bags of congealed blood that ooze from the bottom and turn everything a sickening cherry-color. Reflects that he only likes cherries in vodka, and tosses one of the beers over his shoulder.

"Not that I'm complainin', baby. You've got style."

Knows she'll catch it, doesn't care to turn when he hears nothing. Takes his careful time turning back, and when he looks he wishes he'd never let her in.

She's sprawled across his couch, all spread legs and lusty eyes and crimson nails. Clouds of pearlescent mist gather around her head, like some demented halo that shouldn't. Lips parted, bottle hanging delicately from her fingertips, that horrid come-hither look crossing her paled features, and _God_ he really wants to rip her head off.

"So how we gonna do this?" she asks, suddenly all business with just a hint of that cold seduction she'll never quite pull off. Spike twists his bottle violently, sending the cap ricocheting into the wall. She's unfazed, taking a deep pull on her cigarette and watching him expectantly.

"However you want, pet," he replies coolly, swallowing a mouthful of that disgusting beer and trying his best not to glare. "Not much, but 've got 'nough to get you off."

Her eyes travel appreciatively to his crotch, and her stupid little penciled-in eyebrows raise. He scowls angrily when she chuckles at him, ankles crossed.

"Yeah, I can see _that_."

He growls at her, but she doesn't notice. Idiot.

"Price depends on service, baby."

She's business again, sitting up and untying her coat belt. Blinks. Wait, when the hell did she get a trench coat?

"We'll just see how good you look come mornin'."

Smirks for real this time, anger melting to apathy. Not that he cares.

Her hands drift up her shoulders, skittering across the valleys and peaks of her pert little breasts to tug poutily at the lapels of her jacket. He recoils for a moment, because that lip and this coat and the cold and the tile are just a little _too_ reminiscent.

Turns away quickly, taking off his own coat and draping it over the back of one of his flimsy chairs. Sets the beer down, watches as the fabric slides down her arms, dropping from her hands and pooling at her feet.

"What's the merchandise, pet?"

He nods at the little plastic baggie peeking out from her sleeve. She grins cheekily, bending over and plucking it up.

"You want? It'll cost you, but it makes the ride that much better."

Sniffs the air; once, twice, and he's satisfied.

"Can't hurt," he shrugs, and she saunters across the room. Lays open all she has on the table, and he's tempted to chuckle.

Seven syringes, all in a row. Stupid little blackened spoon, a mirror and a razorblade. 'Course she doesn't have one of those little rubber bands to tie around her arm; why'd she need it? Little clear bottles and dime bags of whitish powder. Heaven in a casket and hell in a hand basket.

"What's your pleasure?"

Lifts a needle, fills and flicks it appreciatively. She's watching him hungrily, taking nothing for herself and laying everything she'll never completely have across his table of cracked Formica.

Second-fiddle whore peddling her wares from door-to-door, like one of those old-fashioned salesmen he'd catch for Drusilla to play with. 'Fast food' they'd called it, laughing together, covered in blood and naked beneath the sheets.

"Sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll," she grins, holding up a Ramones CD he stole from someone's car. He can only grunt, sticking himself just below the flesh, the way it's always been.

Closes his eyes, feels the minimal warmth spreading through his arm. When he opens his eyes, she's inches from his face and grinning like a maniac. Yeah, he liked being sedated.

He lets out a groan when she straddles him, legs hooking over his thighs and arms wrapping loosely around the back of his neck.

"C'mon, boss," she whispers, the sultry turned up full-throttle. She nibbles at his earlobe, grinding pelvis to pelvis. He groans again, hands sliding up her arms and resting on her shoulders. "We can make it as fun as you want."

"That right?" he asks, leaning against the back of his chair. Marvels at how she moves with him, breasts brushing against his abdomen as she rides low, watching him beneath those heavily lidded eyes. He blinks, slowly, and smiles, thinking of Woodstock. Lifts his hand and waves it back and forth. Still draws a chuckle.

"Tell me what you want."

She leans forward, nipping at his bottom lip and traveling along his jaw. He smiles at the feeling, the little tingles that erupted across his skin as she moves slowly to his ear. Okay, licking behind his ear. Gettin' a bit strange now.

Her chilly little hands find their way under his shirt again, fingers dancing and skipping over his abs and up, up, up… pinching a nipple, she giggles. Spike moans in pleasure.

"I… can do _anything_," she whispers, giving his inner ear a little lick and dropping her voice. "Be… _anyone_. You just say the word, and—"

"Shut up!" Spike grinds out, turning her head and smashing his lips against hers. She smiles into his mouth, tongue tracing little circles along the roof, and she moans lazily. His hands move lower, reaching the small of her back and pulling her a little closer.

When he closes his eyes, he can imagine that she's anyone else. Anything else. Opens his eyes, and the curls are all he sees. Thinks of another curly-haired girl, feels a twinge of regret and arousal.

Her hair had been much lighter, obviously. Red cardigans draped over the back of her chair, half-empty bottle of Rupes's best bourbon, and broken glass strewn across the floor. Moving on. Moving up. Moving away.

Sometimes he wishes the whelp'd had better aim. Sometimes he wishes Cecily hadn't burned. Sometimes he wishes he'd just stop wishing.

Wonders if she still does that twitchy thing with her hips when he's buried deep inside her, bodies smooshing and hair plastered to her neck. Hopes she saves the tables for him, but then he's biting her lip and she growls.

"Like that?" he asks huskily. God, demons were always great.

"Yeah…"

Grins evilly. But they were better on the table.

She brushes erotically against him, body arching and hips bucking slightly. She's pulling back, standing, one shoe hooked over the edge of his table. One leg down, the other bent past his shoulder, inviting him in.

Can smell it better with warmth, though, and Spike fills another.

"Where you want it?"

"Here," she gestures to just below the apex of her filthy little thighs.

"Don't think it'll go through leather, lamb."

She leans back, unnaturally far, with all the grace and balance of a ballet player. Stretches down until the tips of her fingers brush his disgusting carpet.

"Damn."

"Don't look so bad from here, pet."

She giggles, sweeping back upwards until their foreheads press together.

"I don't need it anyway," she says. He bites her lip harshly, growing impatient. "Ooh… maybe a little…"

Taps the underside of her thigh, the curve that swells up into a nicely shaped ass, with just the right amount of force.

"Best make it worth my while, pet," he sighs. "I've got better drugs than this."

"I thought I was the best one," she pouts, leaning to suck at the flesh on his collarbone. He gasps, feeling the heat on his skin and swearing she sounds just like Buffy. When he squints, she looks a little bit like her, too.

Closes his eyes quickly, hoping she won't talk. Won't speak, won't make a noise to ruin this moment.

Won't be like stupid Harmony and her stupid mouth. 'Cause he'd only look at her hair, look at the blonde, and try to imagine it belonged to someone else, anyone else. And when she bit his neck, he could still imagine.

She plucks the needle from his fingers, lips sucking at that little hollow below his throat. Stabs it blindly into her shoulder and plunges. Oh, level playing field again.

She grinds against him for a moment, riding out the beginning tingles, and his hands travel up and down her thighs. Lean and bony, he wonders if she'll taste like fish. Hopes not. Thinks it'll be bad either way.

"You good, lamb?" he asks when she doesn't move for several minutes. Opens her bloodshot eyes and sways on the spot, slurring in what must seem very sexy in her own mind.

"'Course, baby…"

"Wonderful."

He stands abruptly, dumping her onto the floor. She mewls from the floor, but Spike ignores her. Tugs at his belt, scooping up the needles and taking them to his bedside table.

She's lying in a puddle on the floor, body writhing and wriggling, stretching and distending. Spike yanks off his mud-crusted boots (had they _ever_ been clean?) and tosses them across the room. They hit the wall with a resounding _smack_, and she twitches.

"Won't fuck you on the floor, pet."

She whines, a horrible keening sound, and Spike rolls his eyes. Crosses the room in three long strides, he grabs her arm roughly and wrenches her to her feet. She stands, head lolling back and forth.

"You _do_ know how this works, right?" he asks, scrutinizing her face carefully. She's completely shit-faced, and he feels like sighing. Amateurs.

"I _know_ how it works," she snaps. Spike laughs at her apparent lack of grace and finesse. Grips her arms, stopping their haphazard unbuttoning of his pants.

"Pet, you gotta have _style_."

"Like you?" she giggles.

"Yeah, like me," Spike agrees, releasing her arms. She smiles up at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing his jaw. Shifts to autopilot, the part of him that always knows the words and moves and smoothness that seemed to disappear whenever he'd gotten close to _her_. Not with Drus, not Harm, not even with Ahn had he forgotten it, but something inside him changed every fucking time the Slayer was near him.

He blinks. Suddenly, he's naked in the middle of his basement, and her legs are wrapping around his waist, and he stumbles a bit, grabbing her ass and holding her up as their lips crush together.

Her fingers dig into the skin on his shoulder, and Spike wraps his arms around her back. Pain shoots to his fingertips, but he ignores it as he staggers backward, feeling blindly for his bed. She loses her pants and fishnets somewhere along the way as Spike hits the wall.

One hand snakes down between them, and she tugs at his bottom lip impatiently. Spike chuckles at her, the stupidity and naiveté and tries not to wonder how Fred is.

Manages to weave his way to the bed, she's on the bottom. Props himself up with his hands, lips ever-locking. Should've figured it by now, since he's not coming up for air. _Amateurs._

"C'mon, baby," she breathes heavily. Oh good. The dirty talk. "Give it to me good."

Spike rolls his eyes inwardly.

He leans down again, nipping at her collarbone and slowly going down and down. Skims past her breasts, and she whimpers in anticipation. Rears back, body level and resting between her thighs. He can feel it now; she's ready. Somehow, he gets the feeling she's _always_ ready.

And, oh, the _wrongness_ that envelopes him, swallows him and takes him screaming silently; the _revulsion_ that tingles every sense, every thought, and he bites his lip to keep from sobbing, keep from weeping out her name in agony as he slides into that dirty little bitch. She moans, gasping and squeaking, and spreading her legs just a little wider, and Spike swallows the bile rising in his throat.

"Hit me again," he grunts painfully, gesturing with a jut of his chin towards the needles beside them. She reaches out, slender fingers wrapping around one and jabbing it in, shoving down the plunger. He closes his eyes, relishing the little rush that comes with every hit, feeling it spread across his forearm like a light breeze, down through his chest, and all the way across until his toes curl.

When he's numb, when he feels nothing once more, he can finally smile. Smiles back, she turns up the corners of that blasphemous mouth that he can't bear to look at. She's cold, and he tries not to shudder. Oh, God, it's making him sick, and then he begins to move.

She puts up a good enough show, and Spike clamps his eyes shut, lips pressed to a thin line and grunts of effort slipping from his throat. She could wake the dead with those screams. Probably is.

Casts his mind around frantically, searching for something else to know, to be. Captures her mouth again, kisses hungry and frantic and searching, desperate to fill a void that's always been there. A void he never felt until he felt Buffy. Tries not to think of her.

He thinks of home and his mother, and the soft, sweet sounds she'd made when he drained the life from her. The look of innocence and flash of forgiveness in her eyes as the broken shaft pierced her heart. Black hair that shimmered with stars and waved like the swirling depths of the darkest ocean, chocolate eyes and the taste of blood, and the feel of cold metal in his hands. The creak of leather and beating Angelus to save the world and the way selling the DeSoto had felt like losing another piece of his spirit. Adam and cattle prods and sex with robots and how Harmony would draw on his back with lipstick when he pretended to sleep. Screaming girls and burning Buddhas and the candles he left lit in the crypt for weeks. Daisies and death and Buffy's grave, slinking through the moonbeams to smoke beneath her window. Holding Dawn's hand in the shade at the funeral, stroking her hair and letting her head nuzzle his shoulder with tears and Harris glaring at him through the curtain of Dawn's shiny hair. Sunnydale and thunderstorms and the Bringers and Sunny_hell_ and how Andrew liked blooming onions and looked at him like some kind of fucked-up hero. __Stupid Andrew, who even now Spike wanted to hit and punch and scream at and hug, _stupid_ Andrew, for not dying and being mortal and young and so incredibly annoying and not-quite-manly enough and _not_ dying—

Death and cookies and dying and crypts and pain and graves, graves, graves and blood and how he'd spent those first weeks picking huge splinters out of his knuckles from clawing and _ripping_… Thick wood and sharp rocks and ice-cold dirt, purple and red and black and when Drusilla had clapped her hands and cackled merrily at his first kill. Feeling trapped, cocooned, lost and afraid and silent, like the time Dawn had fallen asleep in his arms watching _Casablanca_ together at three AM in the summertime. And the way her heart beating had warmed his whole body, and the smell of vanilla and lavender and jasmine (effulgent) would always make him smile and feel like home.

Home, and the way his mother still smelled of daffodils as she crumbled to dust before him. Dust and ashes and burning and the pain in his wrists that branches out and fans like a delta, fire running through his body on gossamer threads like the webs of spiders that he'd clean out of the crypt everyday after Harmony left. The rugs and the bed and the frig stocked with perpetual day-old take out and congealed blood and unopened frozen yogurt that's low-fat and bought on a whim for Dawn at the end of that one July. Clem and the kittens in his coffin and cheating at poker and Buffy drinking whiskey and making that ridiculous noise.

_Buffy._ Spike breathes deeply, letting her name slide across his mind like bourbon and blood, velvet down his throat. Cuddled together, naked under ivory sheets, back propped on the headboard and cushions piled high on his bed. Television dragged down and on, they'd watch _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ absently, her head pillowed on his chest and hand stroking his taut stomach. Bottle of beer in one hand, _Hamlet_ in the other, he'd glance at the screen occasionally with a snarky remark and she'd snark right back before they lapsed into companionable silence that said everything they were afraid to.

Perfection. Moments gleaned from memory, pulled apart and reconstructed into a beautiful fantasy. Every bit of it had happened. The nakedness, the _Breakfast_, _Hamlet_ and beer, stillness and smirks, the comfy silence that never said enough. It's where he goes late at night and in the middle of the day, when sleep is an impossible aspiration, or the feeling of helpless oppression threatens to devour him. It's the place he'd created in those lonely months, where he lived by dull endurance and love of Dawn.

Spike never remembered those first few days after her death, nor does he care to. Those hours are lost in a haze of tears, pain, and lots of alcohol. Silence and pitilessness had gotten him through the first month, but just barely. Everyday it'd hurt a little less, and Spike wonders if he can make it like that again.

She grunts with each new thrust, encouraging him with dirty little phrases, babble and nonsense. Doesn't really care if she's faking, 'cause he is.

He'd flip her over, fuck her from behind, but that's not what he's after. Not what he wants. Realizes he doesn't know what he really wants, and this time their pelvises crash together with enough force to break bones.

She squeaks once, and suddenly she's on top. Not much that's a better ride than a Viper, but Spike knows he is. Squeeze him 'til he pops like warm champagne. Grins.

Yeah, right. _Warm_.

She moans loudly, head tossed back in ecstasy, and Spike can only chuckle. She leans down, kissing the corners of his mouth and traveling down, down, down…

And when she sinks her fangs into his neck, the laughter jumps from his throat. His world is falling to pieces, and she drains him dry. Or tries to.

Spitting and hissing, like some feral cat, she sits straight up, his blood dribbling from her fangs. Spike moves with her, careful not to break the connection. He really doesn't want to start over.

"What the _fuck_?" she says, fangs glinting with the amber in her eyes. Spike smiles lustily, leaning against the headboard and crossing his arms behind his head. She stares at him, not comprehending, and he can't believe he'll have to explain it to her.

"What the fuck _what_?"

Not nearly as much fun to pick up the pieces, rearrange them in order and show her how to put it all back together. _She_ was his glue, his final fitting, the one piece that fucks up the whole puzzle when he's put it together wrong.

"What— you… th-this…"

'Cause without her, everything falls apart.

"What were you expecting, pet?" he chuckles. "Any idiot should've smelled it on me."

"Y-you're not human," she sputters feebly. He leans up, licking a drop of blood from her chin.

"Neither're you," he points out needlessly. "Don't see the problem there, lamb."

She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly fearful and uncertain.

"I-I don't," she bites her lip, and Spike watches her. "I mean, usually I just…"

"Food source, is it?" Spike nods. "Well, sorry, pet, but I can still pay you if—"

"No."

She looks repulsed at the idea, and Spike can understand.

"I-I don't want money," she continues quietly. "Usually, when I've finished… with a guy, I just stay in his place 'til the sun goes down."

"You can stay here if you like. Just for a day."

"For a day," she echoes, arms still around herself. He stares at her, trying to remember what being soulless felt like. Strangely, he seems to remember a lot of shame.

"Got some pig's blood in the frig if you're peckish."

"No… no, let's just… finish."

"Don't fret on it, lamb."

He leans up, taking her lips in a tender, humoring way. She responds, arms snaking around his body as he slowly reclines again. Flips, she's bottom.

She breaks the kiss, turning her head to the side and staring at the wall as he slams into her over and over. Spike follows her example, staring blankly into the pillow, at her long black hair splayed over his bed sheets.

"One more," she grunts, giving herself a poke with one of the two remaining needles. Fills it to the brim for him, slides it in, and Spike nods in numbing pleasure.

Shivers run up and down his spine as her hands grip his shoulders. Little sounds slip from her lips, grunts and whimpers and moans that mean nothing. The tears that glitter in her eyes are mirrored in Spike's, but he never lets a drop fall.

His whole body tenses, like a spring coiled too tight, and he waits for it all to snap. Like a big bloody rubber band, he starts to feel the pain in his wrists again and tries not to think. This far in the game, that's not too hard of an accomplishment.

But even as he tries not to think, he knows that the only way it'll break is if he _does_ think. There's always that one thing that pushes him over the edge, and it'll always be the same.

He can feel her muscles contract below him and knows that a few more slams will take him home. She's still not looking at him, finding her solace in the cracked plaster of his walls.

Almost there, Spike bites his lip nearly through, thinking and yet not, knowing and yet not. Being, but still not _quite_.

He wants to stay here, teetering slowly on the brink of infinite perfection. She moans, writhing beneath him, and that one thought bursts the bubble in his mind.

_Buffy._

He crashes around her, spiraling in the comedown that makes him lean over her prone body and retch on the floor. She's stiff and tired and icy, but at least they both fit on the bed.

"Perfection, baby," she purrs, and he turns onto his side. Away from her, away from all he's done.

Should've just run. Taken the Viper and left. Stupid fucking phone booths.

"Yeah, wonderful," he forces out.

Tomorrow he'll go. He'll find her, tell her all the horrible little mistakes he's made. Traces the tiny holes dotting his inner forearm and grimaces. No, it's too late. Love's bitch just broke free.

And when he lies awake in the middle of early morning, she's cold and the hair on the pillow beside him is black, but for a moment he's warm and the hair is blonde.

Spike smiles then. Because sometimes, LA really isn't all that bad.

FIN


End file.
